Chapter 21 #2
With daylight streaming in through the windows, she could see all she had missed and swept the entire cabin thoroughly.
Among the cobwebs and rusty cans in the small pantry closet, she found a bar of lye soap and several rags stuffed into a bucket.
That the soap was still in its wrapper and the rags looked practically unused didn’t surprise her.
“This place doesn’t look like it has seen soap or water in eons,” she muttered as she grabbed the bucket and headed for the pump in the kitchen.
Twenty minutes of vigorous priming later, until she was hot and sweaty yet again, she gave up.
She opened the back door to let in a breeze and stood staring at the trees.
Jenny said they were aspens, but she also spotted willows, like the ones that grew by the creek that flowed through their property back in Virginia.
“Willows thrive near water,” she said to herself before grabbing the bucket and heading out to explore.
Charlotte carefully made her way through the woods, on alert for snakes and giant bugs.
After about 100 yards, she looked back. No longer able to see the cabin, she stopped, second-guessing herself, afraid to go farther and risk getting lost. But in the silence of the woods, she heard the faint sound of rushing water.
“I knew it,” she declared.
She followed the sound and the willows until she reached a gently sloping bank leading down to a creek. The silvery reflection of the sun on the water must have inspired the name—Silverbend Creek. It ran northwest of town, cutting across the Jacksons’ extensive cattle enterprise.
Hurrying eagerly to the water, she cupped her hands and drank.
With her thirst quenched, she sat back, closed her eyes, and listened to the soothing burble of the creek.
The challenges the cabin posed soon intruded on her peace.
With the pump broken, she’d have to haul water a bucket at a time.
It would be an arduous task unless she cleared the path to the creek.
The one to the road also needed clearing.
There was so much to do. She wrestled with the agonizing question of how to use her few coins: machete, sickle, or food?
On her way back to the cabin, the rope handle of the full bucket dug into her palm.
Pausing to switch hands, she noticed banging in the distance.
Charlotte cautiously made her way closer and was stunned to see several men, at least three of them, working on her cabin.
One of them was on the roof, hammering away.
She looked for Jenny but didn’t see her. As she emerged from the trees, a vast, hulking man in a battered black hat exited the cabin.
“George? Is that you?”
When he looked up and saw her, a wide grin spread across his face. “Good to see you, Miss Charlotte.”
She smiled back at him, delighted to see one of her former guards.
George Gleason’s kindness toward everyone he encountered had left a lasting impression on her.
He looked the part, but his friend-to-everyone demeanor was all wrong for a man hired as muscle in a brothel, which explained why he hadn’t been employed with them long.
“Jenny Jackson sent you,” she guessed.
“She did. Said you were in a bind.” He looked around, frowning. “I think that’s what folks call an understatement. If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, why are you living out here in the woods and not at the Red Eye?”
“Fenton died, and a man claiming to be his brother showed up to stake a claim. Did you hear?”
He nodded. “I didn’t make it to the funeral. Sorry.”
“He wasn’t always kind to you, George. I understand.”
“No, but you always were. You took up for me with him, too. This”—he waved his arm out to the side—“is my way of saying thank you, and being neighborly. So is the basket of biscuits, apple butter, and country ham Ma sent you. They’re inside.”
Hungry enough to eat the basket, her mouth watered, but her curiosity also had to be satisfied.
“What have you been up to since you left us, George?”
“I manage the Harper Farm. That’s Miss Jenny and Will’s place, which is only a few miles from here as the crow flies.
” He motioned her over. “Let me show you what we’re working on.
Russell’s fixing your roof and shoring up some weak areas.
” A man appeared from the front carrying several pieces of lumber.
“That’s Wyatt. He’ll be replacing the rotten boards we found, inside and outside.
Gage and Levi are clearing the yard around the cabin.
They’ll get the path to the road too. It’s been let go for quite a while.
If they don’t finish today, they’ll come back. ”
“I can’t thank you enough. I hate to ask, because you’re doing so much already, but do you think you could look at the pump inside?”
He delivered more bad news. “I already checked it. Your well is dry. We’ll have to dig a new one, I’m afraid, but we’ll see to it as soon as we can.
” The big man eyed her bucket. “You’ll be hauling water from the creek in the meantime.
” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.
“I noticed a rain barrel out front that might save you a few steps, but it needs a good scrubbing.”
“I can do that. I’m grateful for all you’re doing, George.”
She worked inside, scouring every surface, especially the floor, while they cleared brush and hammered what sounded like a thousand nails. By suppertime, with a sound roof over her head and the cabin not at risk of collapsing if the wind blew, they called it a day.
George stopped at the front door before leaving.
“This whole thing needs to be replaced,” he told her of the front door.
“The hinges and lock, included. But I’ll need supplies from town.
Until then, I’ve got it rigged with fence wire.
” He looked at her with worried eyes. “A woman alone doesn’t sit well with me. You got a gun?”
“No. I suppose I’ll need to buy one.” That was another expense she couldn’t afford.
He walked outside without a word and returned a minute later. “Know how to fire a shotgun?”
“I’ve fired one once or twice, but can you remind me?”
“It’s loaded with two cartridges,” he advised then went through the motions with experienced hands. “Pull down on the lever, brace the butt against your shoulder, and fire with both hands. Be prepared for a kick the first time.” He hesitated before handing it to her. “You could come home with me—”
“I couldn’t impose.”
“Ma and Sarah won’t mind.”
“They will if they find out who I am. An innocent young girl like Sarah doesn’t need her name to be mentioned alongside mine. I’ll be fine, George. Especially with this,” she said, lifting the shotgun from his grasp. “I’ll return it—”
“It’s yours. It will keep me from worrying as much.”
“You’ve always been a nice man, George Gleason.”
“Good night, ma’am.”
Charlotte went inside and lit the lamp. Then she sat at the rickety table and gorged herself on the best cold ham and biscuits she’d ever eaten. She made her bed on the floor for the second night in a row, but was so tired, she barely noticed.
***
The rhythmic patter of rain against the roof woke her the next morning. Even though George’s men seemed capable, she felt compelled to check the main room for leaks. Everything was dry, thank goodness.
Charlotte opened the shutters to allow some light in. The rain had picked up. She could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance, and the thick blanket of gray clouds seemed set in. There wouldn’t be any clearing of the road today.
When she turned around and surveyed the much tidier room, she spotted her trunk in the corner. “George must have brought it,” she murmured as she knelt in front of it, grateful for clean clothes.
She sifted through the contents until she found a summer-weight cotton dress. Not work clothes but more suitable for her new rustic life than silk and satin.
“Hello in the cabin!” a voice called.
Popping up onto her knees, Charlotte peered through the window. Three men headed her way, carrying large, covered baskets. On second glance, she realized one wasn’t a basket at all but made of tin and the size of a bathtub.
She got to her feet and went to the door. “There must be a mistake. I didn’t order any of this.”
“No mistake. It’s from Mrs. Jackson.”
“Which Mrs. Jackson?” Charlotte inquired. “Was it Jenny?”
“No, it’s me,” a feminine voice said from behind the wall of men. “Let them in, Charlotte. They had to walk from the road, and this stuff is probably getting heavy.”
Once she stepped aside, they filed in, set their burdens down, and then filed back out. When the last one left, Mrs. Luke Jackson entered, her arms full of a dark-haired, brown-eyed toddler who looked identical to his father.
“Wisteria. What is all of this?”
“Just my way of being neighborly.”
Charlotte looked inside one basket, finding it filled with food—bacon, fresh-baked bread, preserves, canned vegetables, and more—enough to last her a month. When she lifted the cloth covering the second basket, she discovered linens and blankets inside. The bathtub held towels and scented soaps.
Overwhelmed with gratitude, Charlotte whispered, “This is more than neighborly. I can’t pay you for this.”
“It’s a gift and not nearly enough to repay the woman who saved my life.”
As tears filled her eyes, the little boy asked, “Mama’s friend sad?”
“Those are happy tears, baby. And might become ecstatic tears when she sees the men bring in the bed.”
“You are all so kind,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“We think of you as a friend, Charlotte. Regardless of what our husbands might say.” She frowned, suddenly. “That didn’t come out how I meant it to. They’re grateful for all you’ve done, too.”
“I understand.” Her eyes went to the baby. “Who is this beautiful boy?”
“This is Micah,” she said, hugging the boy tight as she moved closer. “Can you say hello to Miss Charlotte?”